


Turncoats

by WritingIsMyCoffee



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Coming Out, Crimson Flower route turned Verdant Wind, Dorothea and Linhardt are best friends change my mind, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, FE3H-typical violence, Fluff, Gay Linhardt von Hevring, I promise, I really love their supports ok, M/M, Multi, Now with a bonus chapter!!, Pissing off Edelgard and Hubert, Post-Time Skip, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Treason, Whump, for all the ships, no one knows how to talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingIsMyCoffee/pseuds/WritingIsMyCoffee
Summary: Five times Dorothea is there for Linhardt and one time he's there for her ft. acts of treason, the Black Eagle Strike Force, and a very scary Edelgard.(now with a very sappy bonus chapter bc let's face it, we need some sap in our lives rn)
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault & Lindhardt von Hevring, Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault, Implied Petra/Bernadetta, My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 79
Kudos: 180





	1. Tea

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as just a Dorothea and Linhardt heart-to-heart and then it quickly spiraled into a Benedict Arnold-esc plot with slight venting. Sometimes that's just how it be when you're writing
> 
> I don't have any upload schedule planned for this at all, so hang in there with me buds. Also wash your hands and stay safe out there!!! We'll get through this all together

In war, all days are long days.

Dorothea is by no means faint of heart; she has the strength to do things she is not proud of for the sake of a brighter future. A future she, and the rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force, were promised. A future she sometimes doubts will ever become reality.

Still, she rushes into battle alongside her allies, her friends-turned-war-heroes. Or war criminals, depending on how things shake out. And at the end of every day, which is a battle in itself, she takes back her humanity through mundane routines.

Wash up. Change her robes. Tidy her room. And finally, brush her hair.

With each stroke, Dorothea feels a sigh build up inside her. Just before it bursts out of her lungs, there’s a knock at her door. She sets her brush aside, rising from her bed begrudgingly.

She could do without another one of Hubie’s reports, frankly. Leave tomorrow’s sorrow for tomorrow’s Dorothea.

“Who is it?” she asks through the door.

A dreary voice responds. “Linhardt.”

Dorothea throws open the door with a start. “Lin?”

Linhardt arches a slow brow. “That’s my name.”

“Wh-What...are you doing here? It’s late.” Dorothea crosses her arms. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

He frowns slightly at that. “Is it so odd, me coming to pay you a visit?”

Sheepishly, Dorothea drops her arms to her sides. “Well, it is. Given the time of day and the circumstances. Though, this is a rather odd time for all of us...what do you need?”

Linhardt’s face returns to its default state: a blank stare. “Do you remember a certain offer you made to me a few weeks back? Or perhaps it was a month or so ago. The days have been bleeding together as of late.”

“They sure have,” she nods. “Um...you’re going to have to be more specific about what I said.”

Now it’s Linhardt’s turn to be sheepish. “Well...you offered to keep your door open, in case...I ever needed to discuss something rather personal.”

It takes Dorothea a moment to recall ever making such an offer, and another moment for her to realize what Linhardt is really saying to her. She smiles warmly, opening her door further. “Come right in.”

As impatient as Linhardt can be sometimes, he’s hardly one to fidget in his seat. Normally it's a certain blue-haired friend of theirs who does all the wiggling for him. However, as Dorothea goes about making a pot of tea for them, he shifts around like a bird about to take flight. Dorothea readies a light burst of wind should he try to flee from their current situation. Just a gentle push to knock him over, nothing more.

“As annoying as Ferdie was, he did make some damn good tea,” Dorothea admits sadly. She sets her kettle over the small burner she’s just lit, wincing as the color of the water has already turned to a complexion she would rather not drink herself. That sigh of hers finally eeks out. “He made it look so  _ easy _ .”

Linhardt merely hums, eyeing the door. Dorothea leaves the kettle to do its thing and takes a seat across from him on her bed.

“So...what did you want to talk about?”

For as tired as he looks, Linhardt jumps. “Oh, just...things.”

“Things.”

“Yes. Things.”

Dorothea narrows her gaze. “It’s not like you to beat around the bush.”

“I…” he looks down at his hands, clasped and trembling in his lap. “I don’t prefer to discuss...personal matters. Nor am I good at it.”

How can Dorothea  _ not _ pity such a sight? She places a hand over his, squeezing gently. “Take your time to say whatever you need to. We have all night.”

He nods, and for the briefest moment, a smile pulls at his lips. But it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. Dorothea knew when she made this offer Linhardt may one day appear on her doorstep. The thing is, the chances of that ever happening seemed slim at the time. What the offer had really been was...talk. A heartfelt gesture that was less of a gesture and more of a well-wishing, of sorts.

That being said, Dorothea is grateful he’s taken such a leap. And if sharing her bed and a warm cup of tea is all he gets out of this interaction, at least Linhardt will have gotten  _ something _ out of it.

“I...Oh, how do I even start-?”

The kettle whistles, cutting him off. Dorothea curses, rushing to pull it off. Right when they were finally getting somewhere. Figures.

She snuffs out the burner, then hurries to pour them each a cup. Once she’s placed Linhardt’s cup in his shaking grasp, he peeks out of his shell once more.

“Thank you.”

Dorothea grimaces. “Don’t thank me until you’ve tasted it. So...you made a promise. To whom?”

Linhardt looks away. “It doesn’t matter who it was.”

“Unless it does,” Dorothea remarks, taking a sip. Too watery, but not horrible. Drinkable enough, but lacking feverly by noble standards. But like Linhardt of all people is going to care about that sort of nonsense.

“The promise was to come out of this war alive...together...but I fear I won’t be able to uphold my end of the deal.”

Dorothea pauses taking her next sip. “You think you might die…? Are you feeling alright? Is something wrong?”

“No, not physically. I plan on surviving this war and living a long, leisurely life. Or maybe just a long one…”

“Why is that?”

Linhardt looks down into his cup. He doesn’t speak for a long while, and it occurs to Dorothea he doesn’t want to be the next one to speak.

“You know, I thought something might be upsetting you,” she admits.

“Oh?” He barely avoids a whisper. His voice is so fragile, in such an uncharacteristic way it makes Dorothea sick. “Do I look so terrible?”

“Your dark circles are...darker than normal, I’ll admit. And you seem so... _ drawn in _ . You’re not an extroverted person by any means-”

He smirks. “I appreciate the compliment.”

“-But usually you’re not so...I can’t think of the right way to describe it…” Dorothea sets her tea on her bedside table. She needs to be facing him, clearly, if she’s going to continue. “You remind me of a fortress.”

“A fortress.”

“Yes. Like Merceus. Impregnable. Untouchable. Unwavering. You’re-you’re...so  _ confident _ . Confidently you. You brush off our scorn as if it were dust on your shoulders. You’ve never given off the impression you need anyone else’s approval to act the way you do, and I...I envy you for that. But that confidence you normally give off...it’s not there anymore.”

Linhardt’s eyes widen. She’s hit the nail on the head, it appears. He hadn’t expected her to, clearly.

“I’ve been having...doubts.”

“Doubts?”

“About what I want to do with my life...and what I should.”

Dorothea angles herself better. “I don’t think I follow.”

Linhardt glares at his tea. “And I don’t think I can elaborate much on the matter.”

Dorothea puts on her detective hat, ready to sleuth out more clues. “Tell me as much as you can.”

His glare sharpens. “It shouldn’t be too hard to piece it all together. The only son of a noble house...who’s only attracted to men…expected to marry now that he’s of suitable age once this war is over.”

A deep pang of sorrow fills Dorothea’s chest. “Oh,  _ Lin _ -”

“They don’t know of my orientation,” Linhardt continues, on the verge of, if not tears, something equally heartbreaking. “I hardly ever write to them, and though they’ve been loving parents, we’ve always been...distant. Just by nature, nothing personal. I have no idea how they’d react if I were to ever tell them.”

“Will you...? Tell them?” Dorothea has to ask.

Linhardt shrugs, his way of saying no. “I’m not a sentimental person. But this war...I’ve never  _ missed _ them before. Never been homesick, for a home I’ve always dreaded returning to. But if I return...I don’t see myself leaving. Not in the world we live in.”

Dorothea frowns. “But that world is _ changing _ , Lin. That’s what we’re doing here after all. Or at least, trying to.”

“Can Edelgard promise us it will all change for the better, though?” he nearly snaps. Linhardt has never been one to push down his grievances, nor is he one to air them out. Linhardt just...never  _ talks _ as to what bothers him  _ ever _ . If he’s had such doubts about Edelgard and her cause, this is the first Dorothea suspects anyone has heard of them.

She also suspects Linhardt isn’t fighting this war for their dear emperor at all. But for something else. Perhaps  _ someone _ else.

“You know she can’t, and she never has,” Dorothea reminds him. “But you’re right; the world may come out of this war worse than it did going in. But we can’t turn back time and change Edie’s mind. We just...keep fighting.”

Linhardt’s frustration subsides. “I don’t want to lose my family,” he continues, changing the subject. “I just...want to rid myself of my title. My inheritance. Give it to someone who cares about such trivial things as the nobility.”

“No one’s saying you can’t have both,” Dorothea says, though she herself is unsure if that is even true. Again, at least in the current world they live in. As for the future…”Ask yourself Linhardt...what do you want?”

“I don’t have that luxury. I never had...I just pretended I did.”

“Then pretend, for just right now, you get to choose your own future. Your own path in life. Where are you going? Who’s going with you?”

It’s Dorothea’s subtle/not-so-subtle way of getting Linhardt to confess who he made his promise to. Or, more accurately, just confirm Dorothea’s suspicions.

Linhardt tilts his head up, closing his tired eyes. “I see...Fodlan’s Throat. Almyra, Brigid, Dagda, and the lands beyond. I see a thousand roads and seven seas...books full of crest research and a nice tree to nap under…”

Dorothea smiles. “That sounds lovely, Lin.”

Linhardt opens his eyes, once again looking downcast. “If...if Caspar agrees to come with me, I’ll leave everything I’ve ever known behind. I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Dorothea takes his hand. “But not without regret.”

He shakes his head. “No…”

“But there may be no need for regret. You don’t know how they’ll take the news. And regardless of what they say-”

She wraps Linhardt up in a hug before he can protest. His tea sloshes out of his cup, but it’s been cool for a while now.

“-You only need to be proud of yourself.”

Linhardt pushes back against her. “Dorothea-”

“We love you, and we support you-”

“Please, don’t-not another word-”

“And I promise to always have your back.”

Linhardt stops struggling. He sighs heavily. “You’ve gone and done it,” he says through tears. “How dare you.”

“Oh, let it out Lin. Let it all out. I bet it’s been a long while since you ever have.”

Linhardt nods, then nods again into her shoulder, completely collapsing into her arms. Dorothea holds him for a long while, stroking his back and coaxing every last bit of hidden anguish out of him.

“Caspar is head over heels for you, you know,” she whispers against the side of his head.

Linhardt doesn’t acknowledge what she’s said. “He wants to leave.”

“Leave where?”

“This war. The Empire. He...Surely you can’t condone any of this yourself, can you?”

Dorothea hesitates before shaking her head. “We may be too far in to back out now,” she fears.

Linhardt sits up, quickly wiping away his remaining tears. “Tomorrow evening. Quarter after dusk. Meeting in Ferdinand’s quarters.”

His old quarters, Linhardt doesn’t say. It seems not even he has been able to stomach the idea of Ferdie being truly gone. That’s how Dorothea knows everythings is wrong with the world.

“Lin, what you’re suggesting-”

“Is dangerous. Treason, in fact. But it must be discussed.”

“No. Please...tell me this isn’t the only reason you had for coming here tonight.”

Linhardt untangles himself from her, standing up slowly. He brushes off his garments, eyes still rimmed red. “You’re the only actor among our party, I’m afraid. I couldn’t act to save my life.”

Dorothea smiles, grateful. “You’d be surprised. Your normal deadpan delivery could fool anyone into believing whatever you say.”

He gives a wet chuckle at that. “I should be going. I’ve kept you too long, and it’s late.”

Dorothea follows him to the door. “Do you want me to walk you to your room? I don’t want you falling asleep on the way there.”

Linhardt smiles at that. “As tired as I am...I doubt I’ll be able to sleep with all that’s occupying my mind. Though given my tendencies, I suppose you have valid concern. Regardless, I’ll be fine. I appreciate the offer though, and...thank you. For all this.”

Dorothea puts a hand to his arm. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to tear down all your walls. I have to admit, there’s so little I actually know about you, Lin.”

“Guess we’ll have to remedy that. Another night perhaps...Goodnight Dorothea.”

“Goodnight Linhardt.”

She watches him disappear down the hallway, then softly closes her door. Suddenly, her knees feel weak. She leans against the cold, hard wood, suddenly trembling.

Treason. That’s what they’re doing. It’s not too late to change her mind. To forget Linhardt’s invitation and guarantee Hubert’s eyes off her back.

But Dorothea would be no better than Linhardt had been before he walked into her room tonight. It’s time to stop letting her fears dictate her life for her.


	2. Sketch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not-so-legal meetings are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just started my second crimson flower playthrough (and my sixth fe3h run overall holy shit dawg) and can i just say *taps microphone*
> 
> I LOVE MY KIDS I LOVE MY KIDS MY BLACK EAGLE KIDS I LOV-

Linhardt had given Dorothea a full day to theorize, as to his intentions, their plans going forward, and whose idea it was to gather the strike force altogether out of the blue.

Her running theory had her placing all her bets on Linhardt. After all, he has the tactical genius (when he wants to apply it) to orchestrate such a devious act. Then again, Petra is the greatest strategizer out of all of them. But only Caspar would have the guts to suggest doing something so rash, and _permanent_.

As it turns out, it had all been Bernadetta’s idea.

They’re standing in a “somber” circle in the center of Ferdinand’s room. Everything in his room reeks of their noble friend long gone. From his polished collection of armor to his excessive tea collection sitting on his desk. Dorothea can feel him standing among them, just as flabbergasted as she is.

“Bernie?!” she starts. “You planned this?!”

Caspar chuckles. “Hell yeah she did! Always bet on Bernie!”

Linhardt puts a finger to his lips. “Acts of espionage require a good deal of secrecy, Caspar. Please keep your voice down.”

Dorothea sends Linhardt a smirk he pretends not to notice.

“I was wrong about you Bernadetta,” Petra smirks. “You are not like prey; you are like a predator. A snake!”

Bernadetta squeaks. “Ah! I-I’m not a snake! I-I...I was just...just...before we retreated from Myriddin, I went out painting…”

Now the room grows appropriately mellow. Bernadetta sways on her feet, from nerves or distress Dorothea can’t tell. Petra puts a hand to their friend’s shoulder, stabilizing her.

Bernadetta thanks her with a nod. Ferdinand and her had been the only ones sent to Enbarr out of their small force. She had witnessed the massacre first-hand. Sweet, kind-hearted Bernadetta, in the midst of all the chaos.

“I w-wanted to clear my head, and despite everything...the landscape was so pretty...but I wasn’t the only one who wanted to capture the scene.”

Linhardt reaches into his robe and retrieves a folded piece of paper. Not just any paper, but sturdy, sketching paper. “You’re the only one who hasn’t seen it yet,” he admits, passing it to Dorothea. “Nothing personal. Hard to find a time when Hubert isn’t anywhere nearby.”

Dorothea could mention how last night would have been a good time, but of course doesn’t. Last night had been for a different matter, one could argue a more important one, but given the circumstances probably not.

She doesn’t know what to expect as she unfolds the sketch. She certainly wasn’t expecting to find herself staring back at Ferdinand’s crinkled, dazzling eyes.

Her breath catches in her throat. “W-Who…?”

Linhardt snatches the sketch back, folding it away as if it never existed. “There aren’t many old Garreg Mach students who have patience for the arts...and who are on the other side of this war.”

The name can’t dare be uttered, as a prying set of ears would cost them all their necks. But the conclusion isn’t a hard one to come to.

“So Ig-this other person...they didn’t try to hurt you, did they Bernie?”

“Oh no!” bernadetta shakes her head furiously. “He just...made some small talk, then handed me his sketch and disappeared.”

“Just like that, huh…” Dorothea scrambles to uncover Ignatz’ motive. He works directly with Claude, who she has no reason to doubt had a hand in all this. But to draw a portrait of Ferdinand, of all people, whom the Alliance army just killed…

Beyond that, the quality of the sketch. The detail, the shading, the effort and _care_ put into it. Dorothea had only spoken to Ignatz a handful of times before the fall of Garreg Mach, but it was obvious how much passion he had for art. She had once asked about his process (and how much it would be to commission him if she were ever interested). His explanation had been so thorough, and filled with countless stutters.

It is impossible to believe Ignatz could have sketched Ferdinand so perfectly, in the exact same state as the day Dorothea last saw him, without seeing him recently.

“I’m guessing you didn’t take a glance at the date?” Linhardt asks.

Dorothea jumps, torn from her thoughts. “The date?”

“A day after the siege. If that helps.”

She glares at him, but her eyes are blown wide a moment later. “Ferdie’s-”

Again, Linhardt’s finger goes to his lips.

Dorothea nods, a lump in her throat. Her heart is racing, her palms sweating, and if it were any other occasion she would be disgusted by her reaction. For Ferdinand of all people. That vexing, insufferable, loyal, genuine-

“We must be acting with swiftness,” Petra declares. “If this is meant as an invitation to cross sides...we have until next month’s end to made a-make a decision.”

She’s always so poised, no matter the weight set upon her shoulders. Dorothea is jealous of Petra’s steely gaze, wishing she could will herself to stand so tall.

“Obviously, our interception at Gronder Field will be the perfect-and _only_ -opportunity to do whatever we’re about to do,” Linhardt concludes.

Caspar knits his brows together. “Why not just leave now? If Ferdinand is-?”

Everyone shushes him.

“Right, right. Sorry. I just...we’re wanted over there! Obviously. So...it’s late. We could just leave tonight.”

“The chaos of the battle will make it less obvious that we’re deserting,” Linhardt supplies. “It’s not exactly something we want others noticing.”

“That’s only a few weeks away…” Until they leave everything they’ve known behind. But it occurs to Dorothea everything she’s known has changed so drastically these past five years. She no longer recognizes the streets of the capital, the glint in Hubert’s eyes, the sharp smile on Edelgard’s lips…

Their world left them a long time ago. Now they’re simply following suit.

“So we’re really doing this,” Dorothea realizes. It’s one thing to plan and another to act.

“We will be ready,” Petra promises. “I will no longer be losing...or killing any more friends. And I must be freeing Brigid of the Empire permanently. While protecting you all.”

Dorothea beams. “You go, girl.”

“I...I want to protect you all too!” Bernadetta confesses. “I’m not that strong...b-but I hate this. I hate fighting! I just want there to be peace, so I can go back to staying in my room all day!”

Linhardt laughs. “That’s a goal I rather admire. To take a nap in a time of peace...well, there would be nothing sweeter.”

“Not to mention all the places you could nap!” Caspar continues. “Ending this war means carving out our own paths. Finally.”

“I’d argue we already are,” Dorothea protests. “Look at us, banding together to do something so dangerous, so risky...think of where we started.” She laughs. “The kids we were five years ago would have never dared something like this.”

“That just means we’re cooler now,” Caspar grins, earning a chuckle from everyone.

“They’re going to slander our names,” Linhardt reminds them. “There will be repercussions not only for us, but for our families. I trust you all well enough not to tattletale, so if you must bow out now do so.”

There are no protests to be had. Conveniently, each person in the room either has a terrible relationship with their family, or none at all.

“Good then. A week's time. Prepare yourselves.”

“Prepare yourselves for what?”

The excitement of treason-no, freedom-had enraptured them all so much as to not notice the door slowly opening. They all stiffen as Edelgard towers in the doorway, their only exit.

Bernadetta shrieks, but it’s hardly out of character for her. It’s the others Dorothea worries for. She herself can read a room as if it were an open book, and this book just so happens to be a horror story.

As a mage, Dorothea has the advantage of range. She can fire spells from a distance, avoiding the need to dodge attacks unless absolutely necessary. Never before has she been forced to act in another position, such as a heavy armor knight. But she chooses now to be her friend’s shield and speaks first.

“We think we know who killed Ferdinand.”

Her voice does not waver. She takes pride in that, as it’s the only thing keeping her form trembling under Edelgard’s gaze. Her eyes are unreadable; perhaps they are skeptical, or equally so just pitiful.

“Oh?” Edelgard steps closer. ‘Why does that matter?”

Leonie had always been referred to as a wasp by Caspar. She struck fast, and somehow always where she knew it would hurt her opponents worse. Even during training sessions, she never relented. That title seems more fitting for Edelgard now, given how much her words have stung Dorothea.

She hesitates, mostly for the part she’s playing but also to steel herself. “I know this might seem odd coming from some of us, but...Edie, we want to avenge him.”

Edelgard blinks. But it’s slow. “Avenge him? All of you?”

She eyes Linhardt, calling their bluff.

“He was one of us,” Dorothea cuts back in. “Edie, I care about every soldier in our army, but Ferdie…? He was more than just any soldier. He was our friend. A-And I think…”

Thank the goddess she had learned to fake-cry for the stage.

“Oh, what does it matter now? He’s _dead_ , and he’s never coming back! And to hell with it, I think I loved him!”

If they survive this, Linhardt will laugh at her later. Dorothea looks forward to his teasing, and makes it her goal to survive this conversation just for that.

And perhaps she will survive, for there’s a sheepish blush spread across Edelgard’s face. “You _did?_ ”

Dorothea crosses her arms, looking down with a huff. “Oh, it doesn’t _matter_ now. What matters is letting him rest. Proper.”

She goes for a sniffle. Maybe a bit much, but it helps to sell the role.

Edelgard sighs. “You’re right. He was our friend. He deserves just that. So, who do you all suspect did it? I cannot guarantee any of you revenge, but I can offer you a swift victory next time we meet our foes.”

Dorothea can’t continue reading all the parts of the script. She prays, prays to a goddess who may no longer be listening to her after all she’s done, that someone besides Edelgard takes a hint.

“It...may be a tall order,” Linhardt pipes up, taking the bait, “but...given his body was never found, we suspect he was heavily incinerated.” He puts a hand to his mouth. “Goodness...forgive me.”

His acting is terrible, but just as Dorothea suspected, Linhardt’s deadpan delivery can fool certain crowds of people. And a very scary emperor.

“So Lysithea then,” Edelgard concludes. “Or perhaps Lorenz?”

“No.” Petra takes control. “They were skilled, but not skilled as nearly as the professor. She knew of magic too.”

“A-And Ferdinand...h-he was on the front lines…” Bernadetta quivers. “I saw the professor heading his way...but I didn’t see it happen. But she’s...she couldn’t-but she must've-”

She bursts nervously into tears and it takes all of Dorothea’s willpower not to run over and kiss her passionately. Meek little Bernie stealing the show! There is a goddess looking down on them. There must be.

Caspar, wisely, does not offer a single word for comment. Dorothea would kiss him too, if someone else was not already planning to do so himself.

Edelgard takes in everything they’ve said, nodding solemnly. No, methodically. She flip-flops between empathy and apathy like a metronome at full speed. “The professor must be dealt with before this war meets its end. If the next battle presents us with the opportunity, I swear to you...we will cut her down.”

Dorothea musters a grateful smile. “Edie...be careful.”

“It’s not me you should be worried about,” Edelgard huffs. “I’ve never seen any of you all so emotional. It’s not wise to give in to sorrows at such a time. You must be able to put your personal feelings aside in order to move this conflict along. If not, you will be joining Ferdinand wherever he may be. Have I made myself clear?”

Dorothea swallows her anger. “We understand...thank you.”

Edelgard nods, then slithers out of the room.

Linhardt puts a finger to his lips. He counts down silently. A minute passes before he lowers his hand. “I, for one, cannot wait for battle.”

Caspar has been patient, and therefore he has earned himself a loud chuckle. “I doubt we’ll _ever_ hear you say that again!” Linhardt smirks, fiddling with a strand of his hair bashfully.

How did Dorothea never notice how hopelessly in love he was before?

Linhardt looks at her. “So...you and Ferdinand?”

Dorothea covers her face in her hands. “Oh please.” She takes on her friends’ barrage of laughter, happy to be the expense of their much-needed amusement.


	3. Meteor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The worst class reunion ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yalls comments are so sweet and put a smile on my face every time I read them <3
> 
> This is where that graphic depictions of violence tag comes in folks. It’s war and it’s gonna be gory, so brace yourselves for some blood

They hadn’t been aware of the fire barrage.

Lined perfectly in a row, masked figures bred from the darkness, ignite massive balls of flame within their palms. The heat rushes across Dorothea’s skin, the light twinkling in her eyes, before the balls are sent flying. Higher and higher they arc, carving a perfect path directly for the opposing armies.

The Black Eagle Strike Force watches, helplessly, as their friends burn.

A sudden sickness overtakes Dorothea. She sways, almost draping herself across Petra.

“Have strength Dorothea,” Petra hushes. “You must stand.”

She does, though the vertigo remains. A hundred yards at most, and they’re free. Perhaps Ferdinand is waiting for them on the other side. It’s only a matter of meeting him there.

The order is given to charge. First, the heavy armored battalions rush out, followed closely behind by the archers. As one, the strike force merges into formation between the two, against their given orders. They naturally start veering off towards the left, and in quick time are able to distance themselves from the main group.

Just a short ways away, two banners flap gently in the breeze, as if left to drape from a pole in the center of a peaceful town square. One is the Alliance symbol, and the other is that of a crest, embroidered with a rich fuchsia.

“The professor must be here,” Linhardt surmises, already out of breath. He’s never had the stamina for running. It’s a wonder he’s sent out into battle at all when he can easily heal from afar. Dorothea suspects it’s his own preference to be out in the midst of it all, despite his hatred of bloodshed.

The plucky brawler running beside him is evidence enough of that. “We just get to those flags and we’re home free!” His grin is bright enough to share amongst the five of them.

A flank of cavaliers cut a path diagonally across the battlefield, edging too close to their small group for Dorothea’s liking. “Three o’clocks everyone!”

They all look, bracing themselves for an attack that may never come, Except it is. They’re not considered allies as of yet, the brand of foe written across their clammy foreheads. The head cavalier raises their lance, leading a charge.

“SCATTER!” Petra yells.

Dorothea turns on her heel, sinking into the moist earth. She loses her footing trying to push forward, and instead falls flat on her side. A pair of horses legs appear over her head, sharp hooves glistening in the gray sunlight. All she can do is curl into herself and utter a rushed prayer.

Somehow, the horse misses her. Or at least, the parts of her body that keep her alive. She’s not sure how many horses stampede over her, but one manages to stomp right on her left calf muscle. Her cry is smothered by the raspy breaths of the stallions before they race off towards another end of the battle field.

Dirt muddles her view of the battlefield. As it clears, Dorothea manages to sit herself upright. A searing wave of pain shoots up her leg, and again she cries out. There will be no walking on it, that’s for sure. No amateur examination of her own is needed to prove that.

The suddenness of it all prevents her panic from settling in. Prone and alone on the battlefield, with her friends scattered about who-knows-where. She forces herself to take a breath, channeling what little white magic she can muster. If only she had studied more healing spells when she had a proper teacher. Tutoring herself has always felt like an uphill climb.

The searing lessens to a harsh throbbing. Dorothea bites her lip, drawing blood. She has to stand, or wait for a nearby soldier to put an end to her suffering. She counts to three, then hoists herself up.

Then she falls back down. Broken. It’s definitely broken. The flesh around the wound has a nasty palette of yellow and purple. The kind of purple that’s dark enough to pass as black to certain pairs of eyes.

“Damn it. _Damn it_.”

She’s been called a bitch before by certain boys at the monastery, and ridiculed far more by those who have attended her opera shows. Well, call her a bitch for being stubborn, but Dorothea is not going to die when she’s come this _close_.

She stands again, not bothering to brace herself. It’s going to hurt putting her weight on the leg, but she hardly has a choice, Best get used to it now and hobble to safety as fast as she can.

Step. Ouch. Step. Ouch. Step. _Ouch_.

Just a moment to rest. Take a breath. Lick the blood off her busted lips. Get back to it.

Step. Ouch. Step. Ouch. Step. _Oh fuck-_

Her leg gives out, throwing in the towel for her. Fine then, she’ll crawl. Dorothea digs her thin fingers into the dirt, the skin under her nails raw against the cold soil.

She must be a pitiful sight. Luckily, no one has taken notice of her yet. But they will. That’s what keeps her crawling.

A bush comes into Dorothea’s view. She nearly sobs with relief. A hiding spot, if just for a moment. A little ways further. A little ways further. Her hands are shaking. A little ways further.

A sudden lightness overcomes her. Dorothea freezes, certain it’s the cruel hands of death ready to rip her away from this world. Then the feeling fades, and when she looks down at her leg it’s mended itself.

She looks a bit higher. Across the field stands Linhardt, his hand outstretched. He appears unscathed, robes only stained by the dirt and grass. At his side stands Caspar, gauntlets held tight to his chest.

They’ve made it. They’ve made it together. Dorothea jumps to her feet, the only evidence of her injury a dull ache. She motions for them to join her, waving her arms frantically.

Recalling the moment later, Dorothea will think of Edelgard as an apparition. There is no other conceivable explanation Dorothea will be able to come with to explain how she appeared so suddenly behind Linhardt, with her axe raised proudly above her. How she had swung down faster than Dorothea could scream Linhardt’s name.

But more impressive of all is how Caspar is able to put himself between the two. He had been given not a second to think, only a moment to act. Protecting others is his second nature, and the choice he makes is an obvious one. Especially for the one he is protecting.

Time slows. Dorothea has heard time slows during one’s death. The brain has a chance to recall every moment of one’s life and put it on display for them. Dorothea must be dying, or at least experiencing Caspar’s life leaking out of him along with all his blood.

She runs. Edelgard draws back her weapon, either feigning shock or genuinely taken off guard. It hardly matters for Dorothea. She raises a sullied hand, and with a flick of her wrist calls upon a meteor shower.

The battlefield bursts into flames. Chunks of the heavens rain down upon the Empire’s forces. To call upon such a massive strike drains Dorothea of the little strength she has left, but something greater than stamina is powering her now.

Edelgard vanishes in the fire. She’s hardly a priority currently. Dorothea kneels beside Linhardt, who’s kneeling over Caspar. He’s pumping enough white magic into his body to cure a whole village. But given the weapon Caspar was struck with, normal magic alone won’t undo all the damage of a grand relic.

Dorothea tries to force out what’s left of her own healing magic. She’s run dry. Caspar twitches, sputtering out blood from his mouth like a water jug with a tear in it.

“Lift his head,” Linhardt orders. Dorothea moves so he can hoist Caspar’s head into her lap. Linhardt puts his hands to Caspar’s chest. They’re both so pale. Merely dead amongst the living, clinging for the right to belong in a world that no longer wants them.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dorothea wipes away the blood still coming out of Caspar’s mouth.

“Lungs,” is all Linhardt offers. He’s twitching just as much as Caspar is. The rate at which he’s casting spells, in such quick succession, is hurting himself.

Dorothea tries to pry his hands off Caspar’s wounds. He scratches her like a wild animal. “Lin, it’s not safe here!”

“He’s dying.” Linhardt’s eye winks sporadically for a moment. “Don’t-Don’t you dare.”

Smoke draws tears to Dorothea’s eyes, among many other things. She runs a hand through Caspar’s hair, then down his cheek, patting him gently. “Wake up Caspar. Come on...big bro? Please. _Please_.”

Dorothea doesn’t want to remember Caspar like this. Broken and mangled, his mouth caked with blood. Already, his smile has left her memory, replaced with this nightmare version of himself.

A silhouette appears from the fire. A demon ripped straight from Hell and deposited upon the earth just to spite them. Severely singed, but still standing, Edelgard walks out before them. Blood boils along the edges of her axe.

It’s a terrifying sight that only spurs Dorothea’s sudden anger.

She lays Caspar down carefully. Linhardt hardly takes notice as she stands between them and their emperor. No, not their emperor. Not anymore.

“So this is what you meant,” Edelgard mutters, “when you all were preparing yourselves. To desert. To become _traitors_.”

Her words are laced with venom, as if she’s the one whose insides are throughout the grass.

“Edie…” Dorothea musters her words through grit teeth. “This isn’t just a war! This-! This is madness!”

Edelgard narrows her gaze. “Only from the side of those who oppose the needed change. The people of Fodlan have been imprisoned for far too long, shackled by the Church and chained to their every whim.”

“But kidnapping Lady Rhea? Disregarding the sacrifices of your soldiers? Th-Those experiments with the masked people we’re supposed to call our allies?! Edie, I know you never intended to become this...this _monster_ you are!”

“How dare you call me a monster, when you all are but spineless vermin? Your cowardly breath stenches this very air. All of you, turning your backs on a worthy cause just because you don’t want to bloody your own hands.”

Caspar’s blood drips off her axe.

What Dorothea enters can only be described as a crazed state.

“This is not a worthy cause!” she bellows. “THIS IS BLIND RETRIBUTION! Worthy change cannot come from _senseless slaughter!_ ”

“I have sacrificed everything for the people of Fodlan!” Edelgard rages.

“How _DARE_ you claim taking lives to be a sacrifice?”

She doesn’t need to gesture to the pair behind her, or the corpses surrounding them. Her point has been made.

Wordless, Edelgard swings her axe back.

“ _NO!_ ”

A beam of light extends from Dorothea’s palm, catching Edelgard in the side. The emperor falls, her axe discarded.

Dorothea stamps her foot down mere inches from her face.

“Edie...we are _leaving_.”

The heat of the lingering fire is far inferior to the fire within her. Edelgard raises her head, eyeing Dorothea with a disdain sharper than steel.

“You could have walked with me...to the end of this.”

Dorothea shakes her head, suddenly remorseful. “You left us behind long ago.”

She turns her back to their old friend, to a life that can no longer exist, and returns to Caspar’s side. Dorothea can’t tell if Linhardt’s been able to make much progress, given how every inch of Caspar has been soaked in blood.

Linhardt wobbles on his knees, eyes half-lidded. “He’s...he’s…”

He falls before he gets a change to finish. Dorothea catches him, mortified to find him so cold to the touch.

She looks to the flames. Edelgard is no longer there.

A heavy sigh escapes her. Dorothea tries to think, but her mind is now sluggish. She can’t carry her two prone friends on her own. She’s minutes away from collapsing herself. Caspar still needs tending to, and there is no one in the vicinity to do so.

All that’s left for them to do is wait. And die.

Dorothea swipes a stray hair out of Linhardt’s face. “I’m sorry...about your promise…”

The fire has started spreading. Or perhaps it was already spreading. It ensnares the three of them in a deadly circle. The smoke chokes them out. Dorothea breaks into a weak coughing fit.

Then leaping through the fire comes an armored steed. Unlike before, this horse avoids crushing any limbs, its rider pulling back on its reins with such calculated strength they could only be considered a professional.

And this rider, in particular, is one indeed.

In one smooth motion, Ferdinand slides off his horse and gathers Caspar into his arms.

Dorothea blinks. “Ferdie...?”

His eyes snap to hers, bright with the same disbelief as hers. “This is no place to die, Dorothea. Let us properly reunite elsewhere.”

He flashes her a smile only he could give, and Dorothea can't help but sob.


	4. Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rest and Reunions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok am I the only one that finds crimson flower to be short??? I swear I just started it the other day and I'm already at the end of it. that being said I cannot WAIT to marry the hell outta Edelgard

It wouldn’t be considered wrong to refer to Garreg Mach as the heart of Fodlan. Placed in the center of the landmass, it once stood as the religious and cultural backbone of all three nations, for better or for worse.

Now, in partial shambles and brimming with soldiers, it only fits the metaphor more.

Dorothea barely remembers getting there. After hoisting Linhardt onto Ferdinand’s horse, she had promptly passed out. For hours afterwards, she drifted in and out of consciousness, grasping onto mere moments and feeble words. The watered memory of teal hair and stale words tries to convince her of the professor trying to rouse her. Dorothea only half-believes it.

It’s only when she regains full consciousness that she decides to trust her brain again. She’s cooped up in the grand hall, placed delicately in a make-shift cot. It’s not hard to imagine the infirmary being overrun after such a bloodbath.

Besides a light headache, Dorothea sees no reason for her to be taking up much-needed space. She rises on aching knees, taking in her surroundings. Soldiers, most no older than her, line the room in rows consisting of what must be a dozen. Or goddess forbid over that. They only appear to be Alliance soldiers and allies, those from the Empire and the mysterious Faerghus battalion who-knows-where by now.

Panic swells in Dorothea’s chest. Only those of the Alliance. She looks frantically, almost daring to call out to her friends. To be the sole survivor of their discernment...the thought is unimaginable.

“Dorothea, why are you up?”

That voice. Flat and even and oh, so incredibly reassuring despite it all. Dorothea’s eyes brim with tears, her dear professor indeed back from the dead. She had known it to be true, but it’s one thing to be told something and another to fully realize it.

“Professor...you’re really here.”

Byleth smiles. “And so are you. Welcome back.”

Dorothea can’t help herself. She dives into Byleth’s arms, burying her head into the other woman’s shoulder. “Thank you...thank you for coming for us…”

Byleth says nothing, simply patting her back.

Suddenly, Dorothea jerks back. “Where are the others? Professor...I-I’m not the only…?”

She dare not finish, and there’s no need for her to. “If you no longer need to rest, I’ll take you to them.”

Dorothea nods, and keeps nodding. “ _Please_.”

To call the reunion of the Black Eagle Strike Force emotional would be an understatement.

Arms wrapped around torsos, heads bowed together, hot tears streaming down every cheek, and hands held in other hands. All of them together at last. Despite everything. Despite Bernadetta’s terrible burns from the ballista, or the arrow Petra took to the shoulder, or the gash on Ferdinand’s forehead, they are all here. They are still breathing.

Even Caspar, comatose in the bed beside them. Breathing when he clearly shouldn’t be, and the professor makes sure to remind them of that.

“I don’t sugarcoat things,” Byleth reminds them. “You all must believe me when I tell you how lucky he is to be alive. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to wake up anytime soon...if ever.”

Dorothea can’t stop herself from looking at Linhardt. Now untangled from the group, he sits at Caspar’s side, elbows bracing his frail body over the mattress. He’s one stiff breeze away from falling out of his chair and sleeping for an entire week, if not longer. Still, he fights his drowsiness, fingers digging at the sheets, eyes locked onto Caspar’s pale hands.

“I-If he does, when will he?” Dorothea asks.

Byleth thinks for a moment. “Professor Manuela would have a better idea than me, but...I’d give him ten days into the new moon. He’s been given more than enough treatment, both magical and traditional. There’s nothing more we can do for him but wait. Now, about you all.”

“W-What about us all?” Bernadetta rasps. Her voice has been further strangled by all the smoke she breathed in. Petra hands her a glass of water Dorothea wasn’t even aware was in the room. The archer gives a thankful smile before taking a small sip from the rim.

Byleth sighs. “You all were Edelgard’s closest allies. Her strongest soldiers, and most trusted friends. Maybe not at the end of your road with her, but that’s certainly how it will appear to your _new_ allies. You can’t just switch sides so easily during a war...there will be repercussions.”

Dorothea scowls. “We can take their flack, professor.”

Something akin to pride shines in Byleth’s eyes. “I know you can, but I still want to warn you of what’s to follow. You won’t be easily trusted. Not all of your old classmates will warm up to you right away. Many of them have lost their homes, or loved ones, to the Empire.”

The faces of the dead stare back at Dorothea from the depths of her soul. All the young men and women she’s slain, for the slim chance of living to see another day. All the blood she split for a side she no longer believes in. Atonement seems impossible, and she hardly seems worthy of it from her perspective.

“No matter what kind of looks they give you,” Byleth continues, “or words they use...you are all still welcomed here. Above all else, you are my students.” She smiles. “My friends.”

Their teary gazes must convince her to open her arms out wide, and another group hug is had. Byleth chuckles, the sound warm and hearty. A sense of humanity has been given to her, or perhaps returned through a lack of divine intervention.

“I knew things must have been pretty bad when _Ferdinand von Aegir_ of all people decided to leave the Empire,” Byleth laughs.

Ferdinand groans. “I apologize for my arrogance, professor. I...was quite annoying back then.”

“Verdict’s still out about today,” Dorothea quips, but pulls him tighter beside her. She’s never offered him any sort of embrace, and she’s surprised to find how...toned he feels. Broad. Steady. He trains often, so it makes sense in retrospect. Why she’s focusing so much on this aspect of him, she’s not sure.

Her wandering mind is due to fatigue. Yes, that’s it, Just that.

Ferdinand hums. “Fair enough.”

Please just be fatigue.

The Black Eagle Strike Force-not disbanded, but needing a new name-is given Caspar’s old dormitory room to rest and recuperate. In an effort to give them some sense of privacy during the adjustment period, but also because there’s a guard room stationed down the hall. It comes as no shock to the group, though Dorothea can’t help her own annoyance. 

There’s only one bed, which Caspar is already occupying. The professor had promised to find them a spare cot once the infirmary loses more patients, which Dorothea suspects won’t be for a while. Still, they make do with some spare sheets and other articles of clothing to set up a make-shift bed for Bernadetta, who’s leg burn is giving her a fit.

Petra opts to sit beside her, helping to rub a special burn ointment commonly used in Brigid. She lulls Bernadetta into a fitful sleep by explaining how those in Brigid commonly make it, what herbs are most used, and when the archer can expect the scabbing to stop. Dorothea tries not to eavesdrop, but she can’t help finding the light blush on Petra’s face so amusing. Or the same one on Bernadetta’s.

Night falls. Dorothea and Ferdinand are the only ones left awake. The former songstress finds a musty blanket hidden in Caspar’s old dresser and, after patting as much of the dust out of it as she can, drapes it over a slumbering Linhardt.

He’s folded over the bedside now, sleep finally claiming him. One frail hand lays an inch away from Caspar’s own. Delicately, Dorothea knits their hands together, the crease between Linhardt’s brows already fading.

“How are you fairing, Dorothea?” Ferdinand asks.

“Shh.” Dorothea smiles. “The kids are sleeping.”

Ferdinand smiles back, though he can’t seem to meet her eyes. “I noticed your leg earlier…”

Dorothea lowers herself to the floor beside him. “Good as new now, thanks to Lin...If you hadn’t shown up-”

“If I had been earlier-”

They stop, finally sharing a glance. Carved amber, that’s what she’s staring at. Gems on a face worn from wartime.

Dorothea shakes her head. “You can’t go down that road, Ferdie. You saved us. That’s what matters.”

He looks away again, relenting with a nod. “I’m...glad, you got my message.”

Dorothea can’t help but laugh. “Only you would send a portrait of yourself.”

“I had to fool Edelgard!” he protests. “I thought it was rather clever…”

“Hmm…”

“You seem pensive.”

“There’s a lot to think about right now.”

“Very true.”

“Just…” Dorothea struggles to articulate this feeling. This feeling of nostalgia for something she never remembered having. “I don’t think any of it has settled in yet. Garreg Mach. The professor. You. You’re alive. You’re…”

Ferdinand reaches for her hand, but thinks better of it. “I thought I was done for. The professor...she held the Sword of the Creator right in front of me, but instead outstretched her hand. I...I-I cannot wrap my head around it either.”

“It’s like she said. If you wanted to leave the Empire, of all people, it was a good sign something was up.”

Ferdinand sulks. Something Dorothea said has disappointed him.

“I...May I be honest? I don’t want you to think less of me, but I...I’ve hardly earned your respect, I suppose.”

Dorothea manages not to roll her eyes. “You do realize we’re friends too, right? Just because you get on my nerves doesn’t mean I think any less of you.”

Ferdinand gapes, then clears his throat. “I apologize. You are my friend too. I...I did love the Empire. But I want to be someone who can live without it...I don’t know if I can…”

His voice wavers, dying off. Tired, _just tired_ , Dorothea takes his hand. He tenses, then allows himself to be held.

“I think you’ve already proven you can.”

Ferdinand beams, his eyes impossibly bright. “Thank you, Dorothea.”

Dorothea gives his hand a squeeze, then lets go. “I’m going to turn in for tonight, Or at least see if I can.” She lays down against the floor, too exhausted to mind the discomfort. Vaguely, she remembers Ferdinand offering to let her sleep on his cloak, but she’s already drifted off.

When she wakes up the next morning, she finds that cloak laying atop of her.


	5. Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grief before a loss hurts the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Married Edelgard and I feel complete <333 now to play Blue Lions again and marry Dimitri

Nine days go by.

Nine days of licking their wounds and recuperating. Wandering the halls of Garreg Mach like specters of a bygone age. Awkward reunions between classmates they hardly recognize anymore. Eating meals in the dining hall that taste like dust.

Or at least, that’s Dorothea’s experience.

Linhardt’s experience can be much more simplified. Sitting by Caspar’s bedside. Being brought food from his friends he most times forgets to eat. Catching winks of sleep at most. Wilting without proper care and sunlight.

Nine days have gone by, with one more left to go.

Manuela performs one last healing ward the night of Caspar’s final day. Come morning, they decision will have to be made to let him go or lengthen his suffering. It had been agreed, in a conversation that did not involve Linhardt, that the Strike Force would ultimately let it be his decision. 

Dorothea catches Manuela as she’s leaving Caspar’s dorm room. The songstress’ face hangs low, the tears in her eyes not of the kind she would be required to shed on stage.

Manuela notices Dorothea with a start. “Oh dear!” She wipes at her face, ridding herself of her discomposure. “Sorry you...had to see me like that, dear.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Dorothea assures her. “How...how is he?”

Manuela sighs, the weight of it pushing her into the earth. “The same as he has been. Unresponsive. He still has until tomorrow, but…” Fresh tears emerge, that this time she does not bother to hide. “I’m tired of losing so many to this war. So many of my pupils, who are still just  _ kids- _ ”

She covers her mouth with a quivering hand. Dorothea musters a smile, putting a hand to her arm. “I know. None of this is fair. Thank you for everything you’ve done for him.”

Manuela shakes her head, but manages a smile herself. “I wish I could do more.”

“I know you do...why don’t we lead a choir for worship this weekend? We would all use a little spiritual assistance right now. I think it would help a lot of us around here.”

“ _ Oh Dorothea, _ that sounds  _ wonderful. _ ” She’s pulling Dorothea in for a grateful hug before the younger diva can protest. Not that Dorothea would if she could.

The embrace lasts for a whole moon, but when they finally pull apart, Dorothea wishes it had been longer.

They had decided to leave the room solely to Linhardt and Caspar that night. As much as everyone had wanted to say goodbyes of their own, they would have time for that tomorrow, assuming the worst.

Somehow, the other Strike Force members had caught on to how far the bond between the healer and brawler really went. They were all operating on the same wavelength now, carrying the burden of information the same way Dorothea had been this entire time.

But before Linhardt can have his privacy, Dorothea needs to see him one last time. To make sure he’s eaten, as always, but also to offer him what little comfort she possibly can.

She slips quietly into the room. Linhardt is awake, but if he takes any notice of her he doesn’t show it. There’s a full plate of fish on the bedside table, untouched and no doubt ice cold.

Dorothea places a chair beside Linhardt, careful not to make too much noise. She takes a seat, the plate of fish balanced carefully in her lap. “Come on, Lin. Just a few bites.”

Linhardt watches Caspar, eyes completely lifeless. “I’ll let him go tomorrow.”

A feeling, the closest of which resembling terror, seizes Dorothea. “You don’t have to decide tonight. Please, wait.”

“I have been waiting,” he reminds her. “Keeping him here, suspending him between our world and whatever’s beyond it...i-it would defeat...defeat the purpose…”

His voice is ladened with grief, but he’s far too tired to weep. Dorothea sets the plate back on the table, giving up just the same as him.”We’ll be there with you when it happens. I-If you want us there-”

“I do.”

A spark. A remnant of Linhardt’s conviction to remind her he’s still with them. Battered, beaten, but here. Wanting them. Wanting his friends.

Dorothea gives him a weak smile. “Okay.” She stands up, grabbing hold of her chair.

“Stay.”

She stops, The chair is a mre inch off the ground.

“Please..?”

“Okay.”

Dorothea retakes her seat, and finds a hand reaching for hers, palm up. Linhardt’s grip is weak, the chill of his fingers sending a chill up her own spine. Still, he holds her as tightly as he can and Dorothea does the same.

She takes one of Caspar’s hands and Linhardt takes the other. Together, they wait. One last time.

Sunlight slips into the room from under the doorframe. Its soft glow eases Dorothea awake, unlike the terrible pain in her neck. She winces, straightening her posture and suppressing a groan.

Her hands are still clasped, and Dorothea, as much as she has willed herself to be strong, isn’t ready to pull away yet.

Linhardt is dead asleep. Finally, at the end of all this, he’s been able to rest. Perhaps he’s far too frail now to mourn, simply allowing whatever happens to happen and his worry to die. Expensing even the smallest amount of energy had always vexed him, and he’s given his sorrow everything he has.

It must be a sign. A sign for what, Dorothea isn’t sure. Caspar is still breathing, but the worst must still be assumed. And anticipated. Accepted even.

Unless, Caspar’s hand just gave a twitch, and she’s being far too hasty.

Dorothea holds her breath. She dares to squeeze his hand back.

Caspar’s fingers press firmer against her knuckles. His chest rises in faster intervals, until finally, on his final day, he opens her eyes.

Dorothea can’t help herself. She slaps Linhardt awake.

The healer jolts, nearly falling out of his chair. “Goddess-! G-God…”

Caspar’s eyes crinkle with a smile. “Woah...I though’ you w’ren’t religi’s, Lin...”

The change that Linhardt goes under could only be caused by some sort of magic. His complexion regains its color, warmth returning to his tough and  _ meaning _ returning to his life. He tears his hand out of Dorothea’s, though she can hardly find it within herself to be mad. All the goodbyes he had been preparing are worthless now. The only thing left of value is this one moment.

Linhardt jumps onto the bed, hands cradling Caspar’s face. “What hurts? Tell me what hurts.”

“Jus’ sore,” Caspar mumbles, words slightly slurred. It will take time for him to recover fully, and longer so for anyone to let him anywhere near a battlefield. But he’s recovered enough to reclaim his place in this world of the living. “You must’ve had t’ patch me uppa _ laught _ .”

Linhardt is finally able to shed his tears. He’s a blubbering mess in less than a second. “Don’t you  _ ever _ -Caspar, I-I swear, if you  _ ever _ do that again-”

“Hey, h-hey.” Caspar tries, and fails, to wipe away Linhardt’s tears. His body is far too sluggish to do much of anything now. “I don’ like it when you cry.”

“Tough, because I thought I had to watch you die!” Linhardt snaps, then immediately crumples in on himself.

Dorothea watches all of this transpire from both near and afar. Near in proximity but afar in reality, witnessing the fondness the two had been withholding from each other be released in disbelief. Perhaps it could be so simple, a confession of love. Arguing over who needed to save who, Caspar defiant in his belief only he could have survived Edelgard’s attack, and Linhardt stubbornly refusing to believe him.

It all comes to ahead when Caspar draws Linhardt closer towards him, cradling his friend and mumbling softly, “I’m so sorry Linny…”

Linhardt sniffs. “No, you don’t...you don’t have to be. You’ve alive. That’s what matters.”

Caspar smirks. “Well, dyin’ would’ve defeated th’ purpose, ‘ight?”

Dorothea has never seen any look as fond as the one on Linhardt’s face. He surges forward, kissing Caspar as if his life depends on it. If the past ten days have proven anything, it does. To no one’s surprise, Caspar kisses him back, hands finding their way into Linhardt’s greasy hair.

Oblivious to the world, the pair fails to notice Dorothea leave the room. She had hoped for her own reunion with Caspar, but thankfully, there will be plenty of time for that later.


	6. Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Claude cameo and flimsy promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn i forgot how fucking SAD all the blue lions kids are. i'm almost to the timeskip and i'm not ready for feral dimitri tbh

The war goes on.

Grondor Field has left a blood streak across Fodlan that will never fade, but Fort Merceus demands an army to take it from the Empire while the time is right. The possibility of capturing an impregnable fort boosts morale somewhat; hitting the Empire where it hurts may finally point them in the direction that will end this terrible war.

There’s an obvious scheme in play, given how unusually giddy Claude seems to be acting this month. Though giddy may not be the right word; jumpy may be better. Or anxious. Whatever he has planned may have more than just the fort riding on it.

Then again, Dorothea hardly knows the man. They only spoke a handful of times back in their academy days, and as intriguing as his character is, he always seemed out of reach. Untouchable, in a sense he wouldn’t allow himself to be known. Sort of how Dorothea used to view the professor. He had been far too intimidating to get to know back then.

Now, however, it seems so childish not to at least try. And when an open spot in the dining hall presents itself, Dorothea takes the opportunity to share a meal with him.

Claude chews pensively on a rather large mouthful as she sits down. He stops, drawn from his daze, and covers his mouth to swallow. “AH. Dorothea.”

“Don’t choke!” she smirks. “You seem to be a worse eater than Caspar.”

Claude flashes her his Riegan-brand smile. “Unfortunately, I have a lot on my agenda. Gotta eat fast before Lorenz gives me an earful about being late to another war council.”

“Oh, I don’t want to keep you-” Dorothea grabs her plate, but Claude waves her off.

“I got time,” he assures her. “Besides, I was hoping we would get a chance to catch up. How are you all settling in? And how’s Caspar doing?”

Dorothea rolls her eyes. “He snuck out of his room to do some sparring, and nearly fainted just getting to the training hall! For some reason, he doesn’t understand the concept of rest and recuperation.”

“Yeah, he’s a lot like Teach in that regard.” Dorothea doesn’t miss the brief glance he sends at his meal, his eyes soft with fondness. She files that information away for later and makes no comment.

“But he’ll be fine,” she continues. “And the rest of us are doing alright.”

“Everyone treating you alright?” Claude asks.

“It would be impossible for  _ everyone _ to be polite,” she remarks. He gives a knowing nod, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “But it gets better every day, it seems. I finally got a chance to thank Ignatz for the lovely portrait he made.”

Claude gives a chubby-cheek smile. “Ah, l’k tha’, did y’?”

Dorothea looks away, laughing. “You really are worse than Caspar! Don’t talk with food in your mouth!”

Claude shrugs, swallowing. He’s acting rather casual around her, bordering on cavalier. The leader of the Alliance talking to a formal member of the Imperial army as if they were two close friends. They’re not even that close to begin with. But, Dorothea supposes, everyone could use an extra friend or two these days.

“Sorry! It gets exhausting being proper all the time. I didn’t mean to make you lose your appetite.”

“I’m sure it does. Eat away, Lord Riegan.”

He laughs. “Did Ignatz tell you how upset he was that he had to rush his drawing? We had to get it to you all before your forces retreated!”

“Ha! He  _ may _ have mentioned something like that.”

“‘Art takes time’ and all that. But it still looked amazing, didn’t it?”

“It’s an artist thing. I can’t tell you how many performances I agonized over that my audience just devoured.” To think the only battlefield Dorothea ever had to stand on was a stage once. Life had been so simple then, her worries so trivial.

Claude sets his utensils aside, laying his arms against the table. “I hate to ask you all of this, given you’ve only been back at Garreg Mach for a few weeks...but we’re going to need you for the next assault.”

Dorothea nods. The inkling that’s been squirming around in her stomach for days is finally satisfied. “I figured we would be asked at some point.”

“Caspar not included, of course, but your insight would be greatly appreciated.”

“We’re with you,” Dorothea assures him. “Though there’s only so much Edelgard was willing to tell us.”

Edelgard. Since when did she stop being Edie? Dorothea hadn’t even noticed the change. Now her appetite is gone. She pushes her plate aside.

Claude eyes her disgared meal. “Well, I wouldn’t be lying if it weren’t also a bit of a political stunt.”

“Oh?”

“Those from the Empire standing with those of the Alliance. A sign of unity. I’d...I’d hate to use you all without being transparent first.”

Dorothea mules over his words for a moment. “Well, I’d rather be used as a sign of unity than anything else. I have but one request.”

“Anything you need.”

“Don’t put Linhardt on the front lines. There’s someone here who’s only going to get himself hurt sneaking into the ranks to protect him.”

Claude smiles, the display all warmth and no teeth. “I heard he can cast physic like a saint.”

“Oh, he can. I assure you.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He rises from his seat, taking both his plate and Dorothea’s. “Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed you were finished.”

“I was, don’t worry.” Dorothea rises as well, flattening out her skirt. “You haven’t told the others yet, have you?”

“I was hoping you’d take on the role as messenger for me,” he admits.

“I don’t mind,” she grins, “given how busy you are. Oh, and Claude?”

“Hmm?”

“You do realize the professor has been giving you  _ looks  _ since forever, right?”

She leaves him sputtering in the dining hall, knowing this will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

On the 31st of the Harpstring Moon, Dorothea finds herself gearing up for yet another battle. 

Her fellow eagles (Deers? Alliance members? Whatever they are now) suit up with her. Petra and Bernadetta test their bow strings, while Ferdinand gives his trusty lance one last polishing. Linhardt would be getting ready, if a very-needy brawler wasn’t currently distracting him.

“Come on! The plan is to wear disguises anyway! Sneak me in, Lin!”

Linhardt huffs, losing his patience. “For the last time Caspar, you have been ordered to stay behind. I’m not going against orders on your behalf. That’s far too exhausting.”

What he really means is,  _ I won’t allow you to jump between us again _ , and Caspar knows it. Still, he protests.

“But what if something happens?”

“Of course something will happen. It’s a battle, and an important one at that.”

Linhardt is doing nothing to calm his boyfriend’s nerves. Dorothea finishes dawning her Imperial armor (the material making her skin crawl), and comes to his rescue.

“Caspar, you’re in no condition to fight.”

“I beat Ferdinand in a sparring match yesterday!”

“That doesn’t say anything!”

“Hey!” Ferdinand objects.

“Especially because I told him to take it easy on you! You’re still recovering.”

“That’s right...wait,  _ especially? _ ”

Dorothea ignores him.

Caspar scowls. He hadn’t even managed to put his armor on all the way, the strain the most mundane tasks too much for his injuries. He stands before them in armored pants and a wrinkled nightshirt, ashamed of himself.

Linhardt puts a hand to his cheek, forcing Caspar to look at him. The rest of them look away, allowing them a moment of privacy. Still, Dorothea can see the pained expression on both their faces so vividly in her mind.

“I need you to stay. Please.”

“But-!”

“Caspar, no. I won’t...I won’t watch you waste away again. I could barely live through it the first time.”

One of them (it must be Caspar) takes a breath. “But what if…?”

There’s a sigh (undeniably from Linhardt). “That is the question. But I made a promise, didn’t I? I may be rude, but I’m not rude enough to back out my word.”

Caspar laughs, though he sounds so defeated. “Just...come back.”

“You did, so it’s only fair I do the same.”

Of all the love stories Dorothea ever performed on stage, they pale in comparison to theirs. Her heart aches for them, their words wounding her.

Ferdinand clears his throat. “We should, uh, probably go.”

They head out, Linhardt lingering behind. Dorothea stands outside the doorway, waiting for him. He emerges, looking a bit flush, but even more fearful. As if the weight of his mortality is hitting him for the first time. Dorothea pats his shoulder, offering him a smile.

“You’re going to see him again.”

Never having been an optimist, Linhardt says nothing, walking away.

Dorothea sighs. When she turns around, she finds Caspar standing in the doorway as expected.

“I’ll bring him back to you. I promise.”

Caspar inhales sharply, then struggles to push the air out of his lungs. “‘Kay.”

He wants to believe her, and Dorothea wants to believe herself too. Because she knows better than to be giving Caspar such false hope, but she’s far too bitter about losing people not to bring Linhardt home.

No matter what it takes.


	7. Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than just a Fort is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being gone for so long! I made the mistake of starting Persona 5 and...yeah, I had to beat that as soon as possible. I've got a few issues with the game, but overall god DAMN. It was good. Very very good. I get why people love this game so much. Fuck when I had to say goodbye to Ryuji at the end I started BAWLING-
> 
> Anyway, this is the official end of the fic. There mayyyyy be a bonus chapter that's straight up just a Casphardt proposal bc I'm weak for them, so that's why this fic is still labeled as unfinished. However, if I decide against writing it, I'll mark it as finished later. Thank you all SO MUCH for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, and being wonderful human beings. In a time like this, little acts of kindness like that mean the word <3 I hope this fic has brought some happiness to your lives, in any small way.
> 
> edit: jk this ain't the end folks. got a new chapter coming soon

Fort Merceus.

Tall? Yes. Fortified? Very. Daunting? Unimaginably so.

Dorothea swallows her nerves, her throat itchy. She wipes her palms on her robes. This is no time for fear, despite how appropriate a reaction it is. Right now, she has a mission. Two actually, that overlap.

Take the fort, for the good of whatever good there is left in the world.

Keep Linhardt alive in the process.

Ferdinand flicks a hand towards the fort’s entrance, his battalion following in step behind his steep. Dorothea trails close beside him, assigned to the front alongside the other much braver souls behind her. She glances back at the flanking fleet, the ones on standby, mostly filled with mages. Linhardt’s ivy hair sways gently in the afternoon breeze, and while Dorothea herself may not be religious, hopefully the goddess grants her prayer and forces him to  _ stay put _ .

Ferdinand clenches his hand. The battalion halts. The gates are open, allowing them entry. Atop the walls, archers stare them down with mounting uncertainty. They’re acting oddly, and judging by Ferdinand’s grip on his lance, they’re about to spur the enemy into conflict.

Suddenly, a horn cries out in the near distance. It’s not from any horn Dorothea is familiar with, those of Adrestia normally being made of brass or steel. If she had to guess, it’s made from some sort of wood, the sound much richer as a result.

It seems Claude’s special reinforcements have arrived.

Every battalion leader raises their weapons, and before the archers can fire, bellows, “CHARGE!”

Battle has always been a blur to Dorothea. If she’s lucky, only a few haunting memories will stick with her once the fighting ceases. She singes an imperial soldier until their breastplate turns dark, and watches as they hit the ground like a rock. That’s one memory sealed. She doesn’t remember who falls after that.

They’ve carved a significant path through the fort’s labyrinth-esc layout, but are still yards away from the Death Night. Take the knight, and the king is left defenseless. The king in this case, Merceus.

Ferdinand sweeps three soldiers off their feet with just one strike of his lance. To think a boy with the pretentious footwork would turn his pride into a weapon. Perhaps that is the greatest sin of war, using the qualities of yourself, good or bad, to kill. Bravely, bloodlust, cowardice; to divine judgement, they are all one in the same.

He finds her in the chaos, eyes ablaze. “DOROTHEA!”

Dorothea takes notice of the growing shadow behind her, side-stepping out of the path of a falling axe. A moment too late, and she would be a stain upon the ground.

By the time she catches her balance, Ferdinand’s lance is six inches into the barbarian’s chest. He thrusts his lance further through, ensuring the job is finished, then finally allows the corpse the mercy of collapsing.

“Are you hurt?”

Dorothea wipes a speck of blood off her cheek. “No.”

Ferdinand grabs onto his reins and weapon with one hand, the other reaching down towards her. “We’re almost there. Climb on.”

His grip is firm, unlike hers. Shaking and dainty, like a porcelain doll teetering off the edge of a shelf. He lifts her onto his steed almost effortlessly, the strength of his arrogance-turned-righteousness revealing itself.

Dorothea’s Ferdinand died a long time ago, she realizes, as they ride further into the heart of the fighting. Whether he was slain at Myrddin or some time prior, the man left behind lives as if he has something left to prove. Dorothea can only guess as to what Ferdinand is trying to tell her. From the way he grips her side, making sure she doesn’t fall off, to how enraged he had been at the prospect of watching his ally fall. His friend. Or something more neither of them wants to admit.There had been no mistaking the anger in his eyes.

Maybe, Dorothea thinks, he’s never felt the need to prove himself, his title doing all the work for him before. Now, titleless, he must start from scratch.

A war hero isn’t such a bad place to start, if history looks upon them kindly.

“That’s the professor!” He nods towards a flash of teal combating a mount of pure darkness. The Death Knight, finally gaining his sick, twisted wish of battling the Fell Star. Whatever Solon had meant by that.

The Death Knight twirls his crescent scythe with morbid grace. The blade scrapes against the stone floor, just nicking Byleth’s calf as she dives out of the way. She tucks into a roll and kneels not far off from where his scythe’s next path lies.

“Hold tight,” she rushes into Ferdinand’s ear, then casts Meteor.

It’s her least favorite spell, its aftereffects turning her as lethargic as an ailing hound. Regardless, the flames distract the Death Knight enough for his grip on his scythe to falter, and for his steed to freak. He’s left grasping for his reins to steady his mount, and Linhardt is able to rush in and heal the professor.

Linhardt, who could be well behind the fleet.

_ Hell _ .

“Lin-!” Dorothea gasps, right as Ferdinand’s horse rears back. They had been running towards the flames too quickly to stop, and being thrown onto the ground is their punishment.

Ferdinand lands beside her, calling out to his steed that is hightailing it in the other direction. Dorothea hoists him up with her and drags her towards Linhardt.

He’s in the epicenter of danger, with no reason to be. Claude had promised he would never reach the front lines, and Claude had lied.

No, that’s just war. Plans change. Positions move. No life is placed more worth than another, and right now Linhardt is just another pawn waiting to be tipped over.

Byleth utters a quick thanks to Linhardt before charging back into battle. Dorothea fills her space immediately, grasping LInhardt by the shoulders.

“What are you doing here?! Are you injured?”

“You’re scolding me like a child,” Linhardt remarks, oblivious to the stake of their surroundings. “Marianne fell. I took her place.”

“No...” Ferdinand deflates. “Not Marianne-”

“She’ll be fine. Probably,” Linhardt assures him. “But she’s in no state to heal others. I’ve got, hmm...four bursts of physic left in me, I’d say.”

Byleth cries out in a mixture of rage and anguish. Linhardt rolls up his sleeves.

Linhardt sighs. “Soon to be three.” And he charges in.

There is no time for fear, and certainly no time for panic. But Dorothea imagines the light in Caspar’ eyes that has kept them all going for so long being snuffed out and just  _ won’t _ allow it.

She runs after him.

Dorothea is aware of how close Ferdinand is to stepping on her heels, but given her lack of defense and mounting exhaustion, his protection is welcomed. Though she hopes he doesn’t plan on making himself a shield for her, in a literal sense.

The Death Knight...how appropriate a title. In his effort to slay the professor, he carves through soldiers like a knife through butter. Swats away those lucky enough to avoid his blade like flies. The living are vermin, and must be disposed of.

What would Linhardt be to him then? A mouse? A flea? Perhaps a gnat?

Dorothea isn’t planning on finishing that analogy today.

Byleth catches the scythe in her side this time,  _ soaring _ through the air this time. She smacks against the stone with a sickening  _ crack _ , and Dorothea swears she hears Claude cry out in the distance. Her loss puts a pause to the fighting, every soldier no matter their side sucking in a stilted breath. The only one unaffected by the spell is Linhardt. Linhardt, who loathes battle, who despises any loss of life, is left ill at the sight of blood, reaches Byleth and does his duty. He pumps life back into their professor, who manages to sit up all on her own. Byleth, as always, refuses to die.

The fighting resumes, the Death Knight charging. They won’t make it out of the way in time, the professor far too stunned and Linhardt lacking far too much agility.

_ What would Caspar do? _ Dorothea thinks, for he’s always been able to keep Linhardt alive. Inseparable on the battlefield, the grappler has made sure, time and time again, they made it back. What did Caspar do? How did he do it?

Easy. He threw himself in the way. Dorothea has seen it firsthand.

She runs, sprinting towards the end of her life. With each step, she’s sprinting through Embar alleyways, the Mittelfrank opera stage, Garreg Mach’s dance hall, Gronder Field-

-And finally, she stops.

There’s no time to say goodbye. Not to Linhardt. Not to the professor. Not to Ferdinand, or the others. No time to be admonished, to deliver praise, to confess to certain feelings she had to this point been ignoring.

Oddly enough, Dorothea feels fine. She’s no longer afraid, far to certain that the choice she’s making is the right one. She can be satisfied knowing she was able to keep her promise, at least for a few minutes more. She will have to rely on her dear old professor to tarry that torch for her now.

Someone is crying out for her. No, it's a choir, similar to the ones she led on stage countless times. They wail her name with competing pitches, but the same frenzied tone. Dorothea wishes she could join them, to sing one last song before bowing out. Oh well. It’s simply not meant to be.

Dorothea closes her eyes, and is fine.

When she opens them, she’s still fine. Surprisingly unscathed, though her hair is a bit windswept.

A purple smoke is swirling from the spot the Death Knight used to be standing. It clears shortly after Dorothea takes notice of it, an irritated-looking Lysithea coming into view.

Behind her, the Death Knight is retreating. The last of the Imperial forces are following his lead.

Lysithea huffs. “Well, are you just going to sit there professor? Go after him!”

Dorothea starts. Byleth. Linhardt. They’re fine. They’re all fine. Linhardt helps Byleth to her feet, and with a curt nod she takes off, the Sword of the Creator glowing all the way.

The storm is over, the calm hitting harder than the violence ever did. Dorothea collapses with a sigh, and finds Linhardt kneeling over her.

“What were you  _ thinking? _ ”

Dorothea shakes her head, needing a minute. Linhardt isn’t going to wait for her.

“What were you going to accomplish? Throwing your life away like that?! It’s not like you to be so foolish!”

“You’re...okay?” she manages.

Linhardt blinks, scowls, grabs at his hair, grits his teeth, and does about just everything but implode in on himself. “Stop... _ asking  _ about  _ me _ . I’m fine. I’m  _ always _ fine! I’m never the one who’s throwing themselves into the fray like- _ like-! _ ”

“Hey…” Dorothea places her hands overtop of his, and slowly, slowly, pries them off of his aching scalp. “I protected you because I wanted to. That’s not...n-not your fault.”

Linhardt turns away, but Dorothea’s grip keeps him from outright bolting.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, squeezing his hands gently. “I didn’t mean for you to have to relive Gronder. I just...well, I made a promise-”

“Oh, lord-”

“And it’s fine now. I’m...a bit in shock, I’ll admit, but unharmed. And so are you. It’s okay, Linhardt.”

Linhardt grimaces, but nods anyway. He’s trembling, and it’s nothing a hug can’t fix. Or at least, temporarily. This appears to be one of those memories that’s going to stick with them for a long while.

“Don’t you ever...not even for my sake. Not even,” he mumbles.

“I’ll try,” Dorothea relents.

“ _ No _ . You  _ will _ . I’d rather not live in a world where your door is closed.”

Out of all the poetry Dorothea has heard and performed, Linhardt’s words are the most poetic out of all of them.

“It’ll always be open,” she chokes out, the emotions of today finally hitting her. “Always and forever, Lin.”

He holds her tighter, then lets her go. “Good,” he sniffs, wiping his face quickly. “I’ll be counting on it.”

Merceus is gone. Just like that. A flash of light and nothing but a crater has been left behind. It just goes to show the impermanence of it all, and how much Dorothea realizes she values her own life.

Though, she does not regret what she did, and never will.

She walks beside Linhardt and Ferdinand on the road back to the monastery. Every face of their allies is stone, too shaken to emote. She’s the only one who is, for once, not lamenting the loss. There’s too much she’s currently processing; later, she’ll certainly be able to accept all of which she saw today.

Linhardt nudges her side, beckoning for her to lean in close. “You almost died today, so you better tell him.”

“Hmm?” Dorothea hums, for once completely innocent.

Linhardt gives her a pointed look. “Do yourself a favor-no, do  _ me _ a favor. If you two get your act together, that only leaves Petra and Bernadetta to figure out what’s going on between them.”

The hidden meaning of their conversation rears its head. “Oh, well-”

“I’m going to go offer my aid to those who need it,” Linhardt announces, falling out of step. “You two have fun.”

He’s gone before Dorothea can protest, now left in uncharted water. Well, she has charted these waters before, but suddenly she’s forgotten how to swim.

“Walking is hardly  _ that _ fun,” Ferdinand comments, oblivious as always. “I’ll never understand that man.”

Dorothea smirks. “I don’t think Linhardt is to be fully understood. That’s where his charm lies.”

Ferdinand chuckles. “Very true.”

Their eyes meet for just a moment, before their gazes go darting elsewhere. To think at a time like this, they could go back to acting like the lovesick teenagers they used to be (or could have been, if the fates had been more merciful). Today has been a good reminder of how fleeting life can be, and Dorothea choses to take that lesson to heart.

Her fingers brush against Ferdinand’s, and effortlessly, they latch onto each other.

“I, uh..I-I hope I am reading this correctly,” Ferdinand stammers.

Dorothea leans against him, her face warm. “You are.”

He tenses, but soon eases against her. “Even if I am a bee?”

She laughs. “I’m surprised you remembered that.”

“How could I forget? You were the first person to place me to a better standard than the one I had been hoping to achieve. I...I have been trying to become the man you want me to be.”

Dorothea’s heart flutters. “I haven’t seen much of your progress...but so far, I think you’re doing fine.”

“Fine…” he whistles, a smile in his voice. “Then I will strive to further my improvement.”

“I have full faith in you,” Dorothea smiles, thankful for the push Linhardt had given her.


	8. Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of an era, and the beginning of another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp i caved and wrote that bonus chapter. And a good thing i did bc this may be my favorite chapter yet. Everyone gets a happy ending bc I'm weak goddamnit
> 
> Once again, thank you all so so so much for reading <3

Despite everything, the war ends.

Nemesis’ defeat is met with an uproar of cheer, and for Linhardt a much needed sigh of relief. He walks back to Garreg Mach with heavy footsteps, though he is hardly weighed down by dread. Upon returning, he is confined to the tightest hug Caspar has ever given him in his life, then treated to a sleep so peaceful he fears he dreamt it.

The following week is devoted entirely to clean-up. With nothing left to fight for, the monastery is nothing more than a glorified weapons shed. Nobles, commoners, and those in-between pack up their belongings and return home, wherever and whatever that home may be.

Unbeknownst to Linhardt, Bernadetta has had plans to return to Brigid with Petra for some time now. But unbeknownst to all of them is how soon they planned on leaving. Apparently Petra has already discussed Brigid’s future alliance with the -well, the Alliance. Or perhaps just Fodlan now. It’s no surprise the up-and-coming Queen is anxious to return home, and after a tearful goodbye celebration with the Black Eagle Strike Force, they make their departure.

Next comes Claude, the literal night _before_ Byleth’s coronation as the United Leader of Fodlan. He makes a terrible fiance in Dorothea’s opinion, but as another soon-to-be-crowned royal, perhaps it can’t be helped. Their old professor puts on a brave face for them all, which is completely see-through. However, there is no denying the adoration in her eyes whenever she glances at the ring on her finger.

With each day that passes, Garreg Mach loses more people. Some former students, others knights of Serios who no longer wish to defend all their lives. Linhardt spies Catherine and Shamir sneaking off together late one night, the decision not coming as much of a shock to him. At least he got to hold Thunderbread once while he had the chance.

It’s only a matter of time before the walls are completely empty, at least of those who no longer have a purpose there. With Caspar’s injuries, he is forced to linger the longest, and who is Linhardt to leave him behind? As he is known to say, it would defeat the purpose.

The purpose of what? Oh, it doesn’t matter so much, as long as there is one.

Currently, Linhardt is trying to figure out what purpose he wants to serve in this young, new world.

“I don’t see you going anywhere without him,” Dorothea admits one lazy afternoon. They’ve taken to sitting underneath one of the trees in the courtyard, not having anything else to do but wait for the wind to blow them whichever way they might go.

Linhardt stretches his arms and places them behind his head. “Well, I doubt you going anywhere without Ferdinand either.”

She chuckles. “Guess we’re both love stricken fools.”

“I’d argue we’re all the wiser for it.”

“You may have a point there.” Dorothea picks at the grass, weaving together the strands she’s plucked from the earth. “Although...I don’t know if I want to jump into marriage quite so suddenly.”

Linhardt chokes on air. “ _Marriage?_ ”

“Or just courtship, I suppose,” Dorothea continues. “So much has happened all so suddenly...I may need some time to myself before I can commit to anyone else. But...I don’t want Ferdie getting the wrong idea. You know how dense he can be.”

There’s a cloud right above them Linhardt just can’t seem to take his eyes off of. “Marriage…”

Dorothea pats the top of his head. “Uh oh, did I break you?”

Linhardt starts. “Huh?”

“Oh Lin, you’re _blushing!_ ” Dorothea laughs. “Are you thinking about your _boy~?_ ”

He would retort with “Caspar’s not my boy” or “Who else would I be thinking of?” but currently all Linhardt can reply with is, “Uh, hmm…”

Dorothea can’t (and frankly won’t) stop laughing. “Come on Lin, come back to me. Crests, Heroes relics, demonic breasts-”

“I’m back,” Linhardt mutters, sitting up. “You caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Dorothea hums proudly. “Did I happen to give you any ideas?”

He looks away, feigning aloofness. “What gave you that impression?”

One last laugh, then Dorothea falls silent. “I’m...really, really happy for you two.”

Linhardt looks back at her. “Well, I wouldn’t be such a flustered mess right now if not for you, so...thanks.”

She beams, cheeks aglow. “Don’t mention it, Lin. I left my door open after all, right?”

That rouses a smile from him. “Right.”

The sun sinks closer to the horizon, and Dorothea decides it’s time to leave. She pats out her dress and runs her hands through her hair. “I’m off to the dining hall.”

“For a date?”

“No. Just a meal that may _become_ a date. If I can find Ferdie, that is. Even after all this, he can’t resist a long, hearty debate with other nobles.”

Her sigh is meant to come off as vexed, but fails and is entirely endearing.

“He’ll understand, you know,” Linhardt remarks. “Ferdinand may not be the brightest of the bunch, but he is certainly the loyalest.”

Dorothea bites her lip, but gives in to a smile. “I know. Have a good evening, Linhardt.”

She leaves him under that tree with a million things to think about.

Linhardt is just shy of being a completely unsentimental person. It wouldn’t surprise him if he were to be referred to as heartless, less so than being called apathetic. Cleaning out his dormitory of the last of the belongings he wishes to take with him, he hardly feels an ounce of remorse. Not for the bed he spent half of his days in, or the desk he labored over for the other.

Years of memories all packed into such a compact space, and Linhardt feels nothing. He closes the door behind him as if he had never lived there.

It’s not the places, or the objects, he harbors his emotions in. The few he is able to emote and not immediately repress (from fatigue or other means)...

They come from smiles. From bright eyes and bright hair and an even brighter personality. All five foot and a little bit more of Caspar, saddled up with his travel equipment and belongings. They’ve decided to pack light, and Caspar had argued that his two short axes were, in fact, lighter than most of his other equipment. Linhardt had taken his word for it.

But that smile...all sunshine and dimples and teeth that could honestly use a better brushing...that’s what Linhardt holds close to him. That is all he wants to take away from this place; the friend he fell so hard for.

“You ready?” Caspar grins, eager to hit the road. The call of Fodlan’s wilds, and those of Brigid, Dagda, Almyra, and so many others, can be heard from miles around.

Linhardt adjusts his satchel, rolling his shoulder blade. “I sure hope so. It’ll be a good while before we reach our first inn, and I’d hate to turn back around.”

Caspar blows him off with a raspberry. “I’m sure you got everything. Welp...time to go say goodbye, I guess.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

He takes Caspar’s hand, not wanting the frown on his face to grow any larger.

“But it’s hardly a permanent one. We’re wanderers now, which means we can always wander back.”

There’s that smile again. “Yeah,” Caspar sighs. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

The goodbyes overtime have grown smaller, those available to attend becoming quickly less available. The professor is waiting at the gates for them, not having any reason to leave herself given Garreg Mach has become her home of sorts. Albeit, her workplace would be more accurate. Accompanying her is the remaining handful of their classmates, all of whom look much more teary eyed than Linhardt feels he should be.

Upon arriving, the group descends upon the couple, They are separated, Leonie dragging Linhardt over to the side to allow him one last look at The Inexhaustible (which he is grateful for), and Mercedes hands Caspar a tin of homemade sweets for the road (which he is also grateful for).

Amidst several separate goodbyes, Byleth finds time for her own. She has yet to dawn the religious regalia Seteth must desperately be wanting her to wear, instead opting for the set of armor her students have always known her to wear.

“Will you be continuing your crest studies?” she asks, a smile in her voice she still struggles to show outwardly. No wonder the two of them have always gotten along so well (not including their arguments about lecture attendance).

“Yes, but not as heavily I’m afraid,” Linhardt admits. “I know I’ll be far too busy keeping him out of trouble.”

Byleth’s eyes widen in a silent chuckle. “I’ll miss hearing you talk of your findings. Please, do come visit.”

“Oh we’ve already made plans for that. Well, loose ones.” He holds out his hand. “Take care of yourself, professor. Don’t let them bore you with such trivial matters.”

Byleth takes his hand, gripping it tightly. She gives him a very rare smirk. “I’ll make sure to keep things interesting around here. Goodbye, Linhardt.”

Their departure draws nearer, but not before two very important farewells are had. Dorothea and Ferdinand save themselves for last, the two having such a fondness for drama.

Caspar draws a rattly breath. “Hey…”

“Hey…” Dorothea breathes, moments from bursting into tears. When she finally does, she pulls Caspar in for one last embrace. Ferdinand joins them, unable to keep his emotions at bay either.

Linhardt watches the affair, a weight on his chest. He is not a sentimental person. He can’t express his feelings so outright unless pushed to the brink.

But when Dorothea holds out her hand...oh, it’s over. Linhardt sobs like he’s never sobbed before, joining the hug.

It’s been quite the journey together, and now, it’s finally come to an end.

“W-We’ll write at every stop,” Caspar blubbers, his face a snotty mess.

“Y-You better!” Dorothea cries. “We’ll be back in Enbarr soon, so g-get to it!”

“Do y-you have enough provisions for the way?” Ferdinand whimpers. “W-We can get you more if needed, or send some later.”

“We’ve packed enough...a-as it is,” Linhardt admits. “We’ll be fine.”

They pull apart, faces flushed and bodies trembling. Five years has hit them all at once, and it occurs to Linhardt that this is the end of some sort of era. Not necessarily a happy era, but an era nonetheless. A mixed bag, for sure, but if given a choice he would go through it all over again.

Dorothea covers her mouth with a hand. “I...I can’t believe you two are really leaving.”

“Can’t we convince you to stay in the capital?” Ferdinand begs. “I’ll ensure your both given a proper house to reside in.”

Caspar gives a wet laugh. “Nah. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Linhardt finds his hand again. “We’ve got to determine our own path in life, and that path doesn't start at Enbarr.”

He’s aware that he said path and not _paths_ , knowing full well he’s not going to spend another second away from Caspar’s side.

And well, he had planned for this at some point. Ideally, he would have waited until they reached their first proper resting spot, or found a rather lovely scenic view to commemorate the occasion.

But, as previously stated, Linhardt is not a sentimental person. No, he’s not a traditionally sentimental person. And to hell with traditions anyway.

He pulls the ring out of his pocket without a second thought. “Speaking of which…”

Caspar takes a glance at him, smiles, and turns away. Then with a start he whips back around. “Woah. Woah, _what_.”

Dorothea and Ferdinand share a gasp, clinging to each other.

“I’ll get right to the point, because I always do. Marry me, Caspar.”

Caspar is oddly silent.

Linhardt finds himself sweating. “I-I don’t see why we shouldn’t wed, given our plans moving forward and the history behind us. If you’d rather me propose in a more romantic setting, or not propose at all-”

“No!” Caspar clears his throat. “No, no it’s not that. I just...I never gave it much thought before…”

Linhardt, who has, deflates. “I see.”

“B-But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to!” Caspar blurts, blushing profusely. “I...I do. I really want to. Uh...slide it on for me?”

“Oh?” Linhardt starts. “Oh! Yes. Here.”

He slides the ring onto Caspar’s finger, the band slipping on as if it always belonged there. It better have, given now carefully Linhardt made sure of the measurements.

It doesn’t necessarily sparkle or anything, but damn if it doesn’t look absolutely beautiful on Caspar’s finger. Not as beautiful as Caspar, of course.

Caspar breaks into a grin wider than all the others he’s shown before. “Hey...look at that.”

“It fits,” Linhardt smiles. Then he laughs. He laughs and laughs and eventually Caspar joins him.

Is this even real? This kind of happiness? Linhardt must be dead or dying, because given their luck they shouldn’t even be here right now.

“I’m going to miss you two _so much_ ,” Dorothea bursts into another sob. “Kiss him, you idiot!”

It’s not specified which idiot she was talking to, but regardless both idiots seal their partnership with a press of their lips (and just a little bit of tongue).

There’s one last group hug, because it wouldn’t feel right not to after all that. Caspar gives into Ferdinand’s pleas and makes the noble his best man, though Linhardt isn’t exactly sure when they’ll actually be wed. Another thing to look forward to, he guesses.

Dorothea buries her face in Linhardt’s shoulder, holding him so tight he fears she won’t let him go. “I’m so happy for you.”

“And I for you.”

She laughs.

“Um…” Linhardt struggles. All this crying is so exhausting. They might as well just set up camp immediately once they leave. “Thank you...f-for everything. For making sure he’s here with me. He means... _thank you_.”

Dorothea presses a kiss to his cheek. “I never had a brother, much less a family...but you were the best one I ever had.”

How is she just allowed to _say that_ to him, like he wasn't leaving right this minute? He can’t find the words to respond with, but he hardly needs to.

Linhardt has always appreciated those who listen to his needless ramblings. He often feels as if the space he takes up holds no significance, given the beating of his own drum is often so out of tempo compared to others.

No matter where he goes, with Caspar by his side, he will continue drumming, and rambling, and keeping his fiance out of the trouble he will no doubt get himself in.

And above all, he will tell the story of a woman, to whomever he comes across on their travels, who ensured the life he was given after the war was a life full of purpose.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
